CINDERELLA AND THE MUSE: or the adventures of a bewildered writer
One midnight, while Cinderella looked wanly upon chaos and confusion, she was disturbed by a noise behind her in the fireplace.
She turned, and stared at the figure brushing itself down in the grate. “You’re not the fairy godmother!”
A tall gentleman in full evening dress – white tie and tails – was flicking a glowing cinder or two from his golden hair. “Do I look like a fairy godmother? No: don’t answer that. There are those who might think differently.”
“Differently? Who?” Cinders was confused
“Now, listen carefully. The fairy godmother has brainwashed you.”
“Brainwa…,” began Cinders, only to fall silent at a frown.
“Please stop repeating things like a parrot.” said the gentleman in evening dress.
Cinderella bowed her head.
“Do not put your faith in princes,” he announced. “They come with baggage.” He brushed back his shiny hair and began to count on his fingers. “Mothers. Previous partners. Meddlesome friends. Odd habits. Unexpected debts.”
Cinders eyes widened.
“What you need to do, my girl,” said the gentleman in evening dress, “is to write a book. And not just any book. A best seller.” He performed a graceful Fred Astaire twirl. “A fast seller! A mega-seller!”
Cinderella pointed silently to a pile of tattered manuscripts, then to a heap of seventh-hand writing magazines. These had promising headlines: “Battering Down Writer’s Block”, “Rocketing to Success with Erotica”, “From Vampire to Valetudinarian and Back: six easy steps”, “She Could if She Would – a beginner’s guide to modality”, “Killing off Characters, Part One”.
“Bah!’ said the gentleman in evening dress, gathering up the magazines. “I will help you, but I require of you three things. Now, concentrate!”
“Three things,” said Cinders obediently, realizing there were times to act like a parrot.
“Yes, three things. One, a List of Lost and Lasting Ideas…”
Cinders began to scribble on the back of a shopping list.
“Two, a piece of The Cloth of Dreams. Three, one of The Crystals of Creativity. Got that? Yes? You have until dawn. Good luck!” With that the gentleman, still holding Cinderella’s writing magazines, stepped into the fireplace. “Oh, and the fairy godmother… A long holiday, I think. Have you actually done any serious writing since that dance?” He paused delicately.
Cinders lowered her gaze, flicking away a tear.
“Thought not. Well, there’s still time – get to it.” With that the gentleman in evening dress vanished.
Taking a deep breath, Cinders looked at her notes. How was she to find a List of Lost and Lasting Ideas? And how could Ideas be Lost if they were Lasting? Or Lasting if they were Lost? It made no sense. Was she just to make them up? She remembered all the articles she’d read: “Eleven Ways to…”, “Five Keys…”, “Thirteen Sure Techniques…” Yet all her magazines had gone. She began to think deeply.
A deep Kro-ak! from the window made her drop her pencil stub.
A raven was perched on the open window sill, one of The Ugly Sisters’ glittery garters in his claw. “Flyer for Ms. Cinders,” the raven croaked, then, espying a trailing silvery frill on a gown waiting to be mended, fluttered over to work it loose.
